


Chase the Higher Ground

by LeHasard



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Awesome Howling Commandos, Bucky Barnes Feels, Drinking, F/M, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Historical, Idiots in Love, Letters, M/M, Men Crying, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, POV Steve Rogers, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers Feels, Wartime, Wartime Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:48:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27766264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeHasard/pseuds/LeHasard
Summary: 1945, Europe.All is fair in love and war, unless you're Steve Rogers. Whether it's navigating a new love affair with his best friend or the terrain of France in a tank, Steve has to figure out a lot on the fly these days.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 25
Kudos: 110
Collections: Not Another Stucky Big Bang 2020





	1. Tank Liberation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RiskyWrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiskyWrites/gifts), [lifefindsaway](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifefindsaway/gifts).



> Thanks to the awesome Nejinee for the impeccable art work and support throughout this process! Thanks to my incredibly patient beta reader Lillaby for fixing all of my egregious grammar and spelling mistakes.
> 
> This is dedicated to the two people who encouraged (read: forced) me to finish this fic.
> 
> Please excuse any and all MASH references, for I am a weak person.
> 
> Title from Paloma by Carbon Leaf

Steve didn’t have a driver’s license; he had no business driving a tank. But he’d slowly gotten less and less surprised with each passing day at the things he had to learn on the fly. He slipped into the driver’s seat and unbuckled the strap of his helmet as he waited for the rest of the team to pour in. The tinny, omnipresent sounds of Gabe’s radio crackled even louder in the confined space. He grit his teeth against the ambient sound, knowing it was necessary to have on hand and that it wasn’t actually as loud as it seemed.

“If you light that cigar, Dum Dum, I’m gonna make you eat it,” Bucky groused as he shoved himself into the tight space reserved for him as the designated gunner. He’d been the last man in and the first to complain, having had to shove himself past the three men crowded up in the turret, nose to knuckle. None of them had seen the inside of a German tank before and Bucky was the smallest of all of them; it only made sense for him to squeeze in last.

At least, that was what Dernier had said as he pushed his way through the hatch right before Bucky.

“Just need something to chew on, Jimmy,” came Dugan’s slightly mumbled reply. Steve might not stop Bucky if the cab started to smell like musty tobacco on top of the heady mix of oil and steel. And stale sweat from the last crop of men who’d been inside.

Steve was too busy running his fingers over the steering levers, trying to figure out which did what, to do more than roll his eyes though. Everyone was tired, bruised, and pumped so full of adrenaline after lifting a Panther that tension was thick enough to taste. The fact that Hydra had possession of one of the Nazi’s older, almost impenetrable tanks was worrisome, and something they needed to report back to command as soon as possible. While the rest of the allies were fighting head-to-head at the German border, the Commandos could use the movement to obscure their own. Even better, they could get away with sneaking a tank back to their headquarters. Or they could try at the very least.

The stifling early spring humidity seemed tenfold trapped behind tons of plate-steel armor and machinery. Sitting down in the hull with Bucky close by didn’t do much to ease up on Steve’s nerves, although he didn’t think he’d be able to relax anytime soon regardless.

There were several pedals by Steve’s feet that made him second guess volunteering to drive the thing, but they were losing too much daylight to off-board everyone to play musical chairs. Besides, none of them had any experience with tanks. He could do just as well as anyone else, Steve reasoned as he stepped down on the largest pedal and yanked hard on what he assumed was the clutch. 

When the engine roared to life, Steve felt more than heard his own whoop of victory, and he looked to his left to see Bucky’s obvious surprise writ large across his face before it melted into a softer smile. There was sweat plastering his dark hair to his forehead and more gathering to bead at his temple. Streaks of sweat cleared away the dust from a hand to hand scuffle Bucky had engaged in on his way up to his sniper’s nest. Steve knew he wasn’t in much better shape, and did his best to ignore how damp he was in general.

The entirety of the cab was vibrating with the ceaseless churning of the engine. Even more motion transferred upward from the tracks as they started to lurch forward; every bone in his body felt like they were going to shake loose. He leaned forward, peering out of the slit of a viewfinder, hands gripping levers as tight as he could to keep them steady. With the combatants at the last Luxembourg- based Hydra cell subdued, they shouldn’t have any problem making it back to camp on the heels of the rest of the Commandos who went ahead on foot. 

It had only been a few months since Luxembourg had been liberated from the Germans, and it was not a huge surprise that once they retreated, a small Hydra base was left behind. There was a stubbornness to them that made Steve grit his teeth painfully together. Though he was also clenching his jaw against the rattling of his body. If he didn’t have to see the camp doctor after this for headache powder, he’d be lucky. 

His ears attuned to the sound of the tank fairly quickly, and Steve could hear Gabe delivering rapid-fire messages through the radio to who he assumed was Stark on the other end. “Coming in hot, hope you like your birthday present. Over.” Gabe finished his transmission, but Steve could still hear the squeal of static every so often.

“Shit, is it actually Stark’s birthday?” Bucky asked, leaning toward Steve as he half-shouted. Steve’s right ear had always been his worse one, especially after the scarlet fever left him with incessant tinnitus. Bucky still favored Steve’s left ear, and while his first instinct was to tell him to cut it out, Steve found that it made him feel warmer than he had any right to. 

“No idea. I’m sure he would’ve made a big deal about it if it were,” he replied, not meaning to shrug. The levers under his hands jerked a little and the tank started to veer a little to the left. It didn’t seem like a tank could be moved by a mere suggestion of a gesture, but what did he know? Steve didn’t dare to look away from the dirt path before him, but he could feel Bucky still leaning toward him. “Or maybe he was just waiting for us to show up to the party.”

Bucky’s airy laugh felt a little like a victory. “You know that he would’ve been blabbing about it if he managed to pull together a party.”

“You’re probably right. He didn’t stop talking about the rib dinner he managed to fly in from Chicago for weeks before it got over here. Still brings it up a year and a half later.” At the mere thought of the pork ribs Howard had bought from a butcher out in the middle of the states, Steve’s stomach started twisting itself in knots. It was an elaborate move on the genius’ part, one that had paid off when he ended up buying enough to feed the camp full of miserable soldiers something actually edible for once. The only meal that had come close to it was the boar Morita and Dernier had managed to snare out in the Southern French countryside one morning. They’d cooked it over a low fire all day, and by the time they had to snuff out the coals they were eating pretty.

“Must be nice, having all that money,” Bucky grunted, and flung his arm out far enough to get in Steve’s space, startling him.

He chanced a quick glance over at Bucky when he leaned impossibly closer, struggling with something. Jutting out his elbow, Steve knocked right into the encroaching hand and shook his head. “If you get any closer, you’ll be in my lap, pal. What the hell are you doing?”

“Relax, I’m just trying my best to not pass out over here. I’m sweating like a sinner in church." Bucky swore under his breath as his hand got stuck in the sleeve of his jacket. "I don’t know how you’re not stripped to the waist yourself. That shit doesn’t breathe any better than this...heavy wool, I know that.” Bucky’s arm was still all too close for comfort, but he retreated after a moment of struggling to peel the bulk of his uniform jacket over his hand and off. He started listing the opposite direction, and Steve had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing at the disgruntled noises he was making. “Shut it,” Bucky groused as he continued to struggle in the confined space. 

But he was whooping victoriously once he managed to pull his left arm free. The jacket got immediately crammed down into the footwell under Bucky’s dirty boots. Boy, was that going to be a bitch to get clean later, Steve thought as he started easing the brake lever to the right track. He couldn’t help but look over to see the self-satisfied look settling over Bucky’s dirty face, never mind the way his worn-thin undershirt was sticking to every plane of the damp skin of his chest. It seemed childish to be jealous of the way the brass dog tags hung low on his sternum, clearly defined even through the sodden material, but Steve never claimed to be all that mature.

The slow pivoting of the tank to the right was the opposite of what Steve had meant to do, and when he tried to course correct, he ended up depressing the wrong pedal and pulling the wrong lever entirely, screeching the tank to a full, unheeded stop.

The cacophonous sound of bodies being jostled around the turret space was cut with swearing and shouting. 

“Warn a poor bastard before you—”

“—the actual fuck?”

“Rogers — where’d you learn to drive?!”

“He didn’t!” Bucky helpfully shouted back, not all that fussed in his seat. Though he was looking at Steve with open curiosity that only encouraged heat to bloom bright across his face. At least Steve could claim being overheated instead of the embarrassment that was roiling in his gut. There were times when he was sure Bucky could read him like a book, like his favorite book he memorized lines of from dog earring the pages. The one he accidentally dropped in the bathtub at least once and set out to dry so he could read it again. Might as well be neat pencil marks underlining the bits of his face that Bucky knew best.

“Sorry,” he muttered, and then repeated louder when Dernier started rattling off choice French phrases that were more demonstrative than physically possible. “If anyone else feels they can do better, by all means! Come and take over,” Steve said, mostly to himself, though he was gratified by the huff of amusement coming from his left.

It was only a handful of kilometers back to base — he could get them back without incident, Steve swore to himself, if only Bucky would stay still and stop distracting him. As he fumbled with the correct levers and clutch, they started moving again, and Steve forced his shoulders down and back, away from his ears. With a swift jerk of his neck, he popped the tension right out of his joints as he pushed the tank to move faster. Now that he had a better idea of what not to do, he could add a little speed. Tearing up the soil of France looked a hell of a lot like tearing up the soggy grass of Luxembourg, and Steve was finally getting the hang of the gear shifting.

“If I knew all it’d take to get your attention again was to take off that damned stifling jacket, I would’ve gotten rid of it weeks ago,” Bucky said, breaking the monotonous sound of the engine churning. Steve’s hand slipped on the gear shift and the tank lurched again, but he was able to quickly set it to rights this time.

“Dunno what you’re talking about,” he grit through clenched teeth. Steve didn’t much like being so transparent, but there was little he could actually do to shield himself from Bucky. Not that he actually wanted to do so, most of the time. 

“You know, you’ve always been such a shitty liar.” Bucky was smirking and Steve didn’t even have to look over at him to know that he was smirking. That wide, toothless smirk that always made Bucky look younger than he was. “Do you remember when you tried to tell your Ma that you busted your chin open because you tripped in a parking lot? All she had to do was give you that stern side-eye before you crumpled and fessed up to starting another fight.”

“Maybe it was your inability to keep a straight face that gave me away, how about that?” Steve asked, eking a little more speed out of the tank. “You were standing behind me. I don’t know that you weren’t selling me down the river with that guilty expression you always—”

“My guilty expression?!” The indignation coming off of Bucky was a balm for whatever chafing Steve felt for having been interrupted. “Pal, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Your Ma knew as well as I did that you weren’t half as clumsy as you wanted anyone to believe. She clocked you faster than that overgrown buffoon McIntyre did when you told him to shut up.”

“I still don’t see why I always had to get in trouble for standing up to assholes like him. Did you hear he went to medical school?” Steve settled back into his seat, his fingers growing increasingly numb on the levers. He held onto them tight nonetheless.

“Stop changing the subject, Steve. You’ve been doing your damndest to not look at me for more than two seconds over the past few weeks, months even, and here you are almost crashing a tank all because,” Bucky gestured broadly at his chest with one hand. The instantaneous flash of embarrassment left Steve a little dizzy. He didn’t look again, but that was almost worse and definitely damning. 

“And I look like shit, I know I do. You even look like shit. So, what gives?” Bucky’s voice dropped so low, Steve almost missed the question.

It was so easy to pretend that whatever had been developing between them wasn’t happening with the war going on. He could only avoid Bucky so much when they were leading the Howlies through raids together, especially when they shared a tent more often than not. But Steve had managed to carve out time to himself, volunteering for guard duty when he knew Bucky would be sleeping or hunting. 

“Honestly don’t know what you’re getting at, Buck,” Steve replied, the words sticking in his mouth. The air in the tank might’ve been dank and damp, but his mouth was suddenly bone dry. It wasn’t helped by the silence from Bucky in return. 

The slight bit of breeze that filtered in through the view slot in front of Steve was hardly helpful, but he welcomed it as a tiny bit of respite anyway. Everything felt increasingly tight and confining, the ominous walls of the hull and the thick, barely pliable panels of his uniform cinching tight around him in odd places. Shifting forward on the edge of his seat, Steve let go of the lever in his right hand to push the edge of his helmet up and back so that it tumbled behind him. Even with his damp hair and ears exposed he didn’t feel much better. Though he felt far worse when he felt Bucky snatch the helmet from behind his back and jam it into his lap instead.

“Never knew you for a coward before, Steve.” 

There was only the sound of Steve's heart in his ears for a long while, the beating of the muscle palpable and disconcertingly fast. He didn't have any right to tell Bucky that he was wrong. Instead, he kept his mouth pressed in a firm line and his eyes trained on the beaten path they had marched up early in the morning. Steve heard Gabe and Jacques shooting the shit in French and Dugan grousing about not understanding a word they were saying, but he wasn't really listening.

Driving a tank seemed a lot less frightening than confronting the leaden weight of shame deep in his chest. 

There wasn't enough room in all of Luxembourg for his feelings to fit inside, and sure, Steve was occasionally dramatic, but he was conflicted on what he was doing with Bucky. Had made too many assumptions about leaving well enough alone to start talking now. They'd been sent on various missions non-stop and hadn't had much alone time. And any moment he and Bucky had been alone, they hadn't been doing much talking of any sort. By the time they were rolling up to the perimeter of the Howlies' satellite camp on the outskirts of the 107th, Steve's tongue was slick with blood from chewing at the side of it. 

The whole tank shuddered to and fro when the hatch was thrown wide open as they were crawling to a stop. Steve released his death grip on the steering levers and sank back in his seat with both trembling hands flying immediately to wipe pooling sweat away from his face, effectively just smearing the moisture around. He felt like his hands would never be still again.

"Last one in, first one out!" Bucky shouted as he scrambled to get out of the hull. He doubled back after a moment to grab his jacket, and the sleeve whipped by Steve's ear all too intentionally.

He let the others scurry out of the tank one by one before even moving to slowly disembark. Once top side, he spotted Colonel Philips with an agitated yet impressed expression on his face as he approached. Steve sat perched on the turret, reveling in the breeze as it hit him full bodied. The promise of a cool evening was enough to lighten his mood just a little. The strong, sour scent of old tobacco hit him right in the face as Dugan stood upwind, cigar already lit and puffing away, but Steve couldn't even bring himself to care. He swung his legs out of the tank and slid gracelessly down to the ground. It was easy to just let Bucky recount their excursion to the Colonel, his already dirty jacket trailing against the ground from where it hung from his loose fist. Steve couldn't help but notice that Bucky graciously skipped over the unnecessary stop just over the border. That defiantly casual stance Bucky took in the face of their CO was undermined by the hard set of his jaw.

Steve's attention was dragged away from Philips and Bucky by a streak of dark, brill creamed hair that came hurtling toward the small group of men, and even he couldn't keep himself from laughing at how excited Howard Stark seemed to be when he finally reached the Panther.

"You sons of bitches actually did it -- you got me a tank!" Ever mindful of his outfit, Howard started to immediately roll up his shirt sleeves, only to pause mid-way through the second, look up at the sky as if considering what time it was, and pull them reluctantly back down. "This'll have to wait until tomorrow."

"We bring you a present and you're not even going to start dismantling it?" Gabe asked, echoed by Dugan's own cigar-muffled disbelief.

"I can't get filthy before my birthday party."

"Dammit, it actually is his birthday," Bucky laughed, breathy and like a punch to Steve's gut.

"Of course it is," Howard said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You reek and you're not going to be allowed into the shindig unless you all clean up." He pointed a well-manicured finger specifically at Steve, drawing a scoff out of the back of his throat, sharp and tired.

Steve pushed off of the hull of the tank and broke off first from the little enclave. As he brushed past Bucky, he headed toward the direction of camp proper instead of their little hamlet. Howard's voice trailed after him, excited, "Officer's mess, 20:00 sharp. You won't want to miss it." 


	2. A Stark Birthday

By 20:08 the officer’s mess was packed wall to canvas covered plywood wall with soldiers clutching containers of alcohol of unknown origin. Though Steve had no proof, he suspected that Howard had pulled even more strings with the locals to get seemingly endless jugs of beer, bottles of wine, and mismatched containers of hooch that Steve could only think of as moonshine. The man’s reach was deeper than he could fathom, but it didn’t matter in the face of a party, did it? Drinks were drinks, and even better when free.

Steve stood shoulder to shoulder with Jones and Morita, tucked into the corner of the space the Howlies had commandeered before he had even arrived. Nothing like the promise of a night off to pack a room. He managed to get his back to the canvas wall, one hand wrapped around the already warm beer he’d been idly sipping on as he watched the others upend their cups much more quickly. The beer sat on his tongue, fizzy and somehow flat tasting all at once.

He’d been able to clean up — scrubbed himself as clean as he could in the cold spray of the shower with three other men crowded into the mildew heavy plywood stalls — and regretted changing into a full-sleeved uniform. Pulling at his tie with his free hand, Steve knew he’d be taking it off, regulations be damned.

“I could kiss Stark for this,” Morita said before downing the rest of the liquor in his tin cup. To his credit, he only winced a little. Steve could smell it from where he was standing, and it was reminiscent of the paint thinner he used to buy on the cheap. Though there was a cloyingly sweet smell of cherries mixed in there.

“You’re going to have to get in line. I think he has his paramour here tonight,” Dernier leaned in to whisper dramatically. It was more of a hushed shout than anything, what with the ruckus of 40 men tucked into a tent meant to hold significantly fewer bodies.

“That Italian girl? He brought her all the way out here for this?” Morita turned to look over his shoulder, rising slightly on his toes to get a better look. Jones didn't bother trying to look; neither did the rest of the group, thankfully.

Steve tilted his head back to look over the olive washed room; there weren't many women, let alone civilians, hanging around their encampment. It should be easier to spot a dark haired woman, and Stark for that matter, as he never once donned anything khaki. But he couldn't see past the soldiers buddying up close, vying for space that just didn't exist.

"Heard him talking about her before you guys came back. Didn't know he was actually serious." Morita dropped back onto his heels and crowded a little closer to their wobbly table.

"It is hard to tell sometimes," Jones agreed.

"He just likes fucking with people. You need to take everything he says with a grain of salt until he proves you otherwise," Dugan chimed in when he miraculously pushed his way over to them, several more tin cups clutched precariously by the handles looped around each of his fingers. He deposited the drinks on the table, shook out his fingers, and reached out to snatch Steve's half-full cup.

"Hey--" Steve said, taken by surprise enough that he let go of the beer without any resistance. He watched wide-eyed as Dugan drank the rest in one swallow (though not without spilling some out of the corners of his mouth, foam clinging to his mustache) and dropped it with a clatter amongst the fresh cups.

"You weren't drinking it," Dugan said after wiping his mustache clean with the back of one freckled hand.

"Finally, something Cap isn't good at," Falsworth laughed as he snatched up the fullest cup of alcohol. None of them were particularly full, and one could probably trace Dugan's trajectory across the room by the mess he’d left behind, compacted dirt turning muddy underfoot.

Jones, Dernier, and Dugan all burst into laughter at various levels and Steve felt his face flush hot. 

"Kid can't drink or drive," Jones betrayed him right in front of his face. Never mind that Gabe was two years younger than Steve.

"Didn't you lot roll up here in a Panther?" Morita turned his attention to Steve, who pointedly looked anywhere but to his right.

“Oh, we did, but it was—“

“Knock it off,” Steve interrupted Jones with a shove of his elbow to his arm. “No one wants to hear this.”

“I sure as shit want to. You didn’t have to walk back to camp, Rogers.” Falsworth jabbed a finger in Steve’s direction before turning toward Dugan.

“And you weren’t almost run off the road by a city boy playing tank driver, either," Dugan said before snorting into his beer.

“Like you could have done any better given the circumstances. Any of you ever set foot in a tank before? No?” Steve picked up a stray cup, not caring if it had been someone else’s and tossed back its contents. “That’s what I thought. We got back here all right.”

“Yeah, a little whiplash never killed a man,” Dernier said through his laughter. 

“At least I know how to drive a car.” Dugan raised his cup to Dernier and they clinked together dully.

"As far as I'm concerned, I saved you three from walking your asses back to camp. None of us died," Morita chimed in, in what Steve had to assume was a mimicry of his own voice.

But Morita's attempt at his Brooklyn accent landed a bit North, a facsimile of Boston if he ever heard one. Steve couldn't hear his own elongated vowels and swallowed sounds, but he could hear the way Jim's own words lilted and ran into each other when he wasn't careful. San Franciscan sounded a bit closer to home than he thought Jim would be comfortable with, but Steve just rolled his eyes at the imitation. 

"All right, all right," Steve said, pointedly ignoring the diminutive echo from his right. "I'm going to get some fresh air. Maybe see where Buck ran off to. He'll miss all the booze at the rate you lot are guzzling it."

Before Dugan launched into the play by play of his most egregious mistakes today, Steve extricated himself from the group and carefully picked his way across the tent. The explosive laughter that came from the back corner only served to drive him to leave faster. By the time he was ducking out of the unfastened tent flap doors, the noise had all blended blissfully together.

The night air was refreshing, though it was still decently warm. Thankfully devoid of the scent of stale tobacco smoke and spilled liquor; a strong, cooling breeze kicked up from the West. Steve took a moment to just take a deep breath as it wicked away residual moisture from his hairline. Outside of the Officer’s Mess he could hear the normal wind down of camp for the night, extraneous lights getting snuffed out, kicking up smoke and conversations hushed. 

If he closed his eyes and stood still for a prolonged moment, Steve could almost believe he was back in the States. Not in Brooklyn, of course. There was no sour smell of garbage or unwashed pavement, there was no noise of neighbors with a new turntable and brass forward jazz albums. But maybe Central Park. With the sound of the trees rustling and scarce nocturnal wildlife waking up. 

Turning into the breeze that had to be kicking up off the river just outside of camp, Steve took a few steps toward the thicket of trees that stood between him and the water. A bit of movement caught his eye off to the side of the supply tent, and Steve couldn’t tamp down the curiosity that sparked in him. He didn’t need to get closer to see it was a woman with her back to Steve or any other onlooker, and a man pressed up against the tent pole. Without wanting to interrupt or call attention to himself, Steve walked as quietly as he could out of camp. No wonder he couldn’t find Howard and Maria in the crowd, they had slipped out at some point after greeting people at the door.

Far be it for Steve to ruin a tender moment in the middle of this hellscape.

He knew all too well what stolen solitude meant, how precious it was. And even though he wasn’t keen on trampling Howard’s, he knew he had to find Bucky. They’d found a relatively remote bend of the river after the 107th had moved into this spot, and he was sure that he could find Bucky there. He hadn’t returned to their tent after they’d disembarked from the tank, and there had been no sign of him when Steve had returned to dress after his shower. It had become customary for Steve to find Bucky out by the river when he couldn’t be found elsewhere and it was easier to start there.

\--------

The softness that had clung to Bucky even through his months of basic training was gone. Steve could see how thin he'd gotten from his vantage point at the treeline. The gaps in the canopy of thick leaves let the clear, radiant moonlight shine through, sluicing off the gently rolling water and reflecting back to the sharp edge of Bucky's jaw.

Steve wondered why it had taken him so long to see the tightly coiled anger in him. 

It was apparent in the way he moved, barefoot at the water's edge, as he attempted to clean the muddy footprints from his jacket. With his pants rolled up and stripped to the waist in just his undershirt, Steve had to wonder how long Bucky had been standing in the water, taking his aggression out on the blue puddle of cloth. Bucky scrubbed at the sodden satin-blend, ground the heel of his palm against it with an undeserved viciousness. He threw the jacket down with an echoing slap on the rocks before repeating the motion. Something clenched low in Steve's gut, something that felt awfully like regret and shame as he watched Bucky for probably too long. 

"What do you want?" came the inevitable question. Bucky didn't look over his shoulder at Steve, he didn't need to. This was the spot they had snuck out to so many times since they staked their tents in the ground here weeks ago. If anyone else frequented this hidden glen, Steve was none the wiser. Bucky knew he was there, hanging back by the low, thick tree branch they always hung their clothes on. Right now, Bucky's standard issue sweater, boots, socks, and mismatched dog tags were perched deliberately where Steve usually strewed his stuff. 

"Wanted to make sure you got in on Stark's party. The guys are all there," Steve said as he took a few telegraphed steps toward the water.

"No thanks." The sound of the river almost washed away Bucky's quiet refusal.

"Bucky," he started and stopped, mouth still open.

"Anything else you want to say to me, or is that it, Cap?"

Uncomfortable, Steve raised a hand to his mouth -- a dirty habit he never really broke. He chewed at the callused corner of his nail bed as his thoughts started spiraling out of control, the sharp edge of a canine tooth jaggedly piercing the dead skin. 

Bucky picked up his jacket and started wringing it out. Or he tried to. The material looked heavy normally, even more so after it soaked up half of France's freshwater supply. Steve itched to reach out and help, but the quick glance he received when he lifted a heel to move close froze him in place. 

"When a piece of fruit splits and the flesh hardens as it grows to make up for the lack of skin -- that's what this feels like. There's so much life around this horrible chasm, except we can't just excise it with our fingernails and teeth." Steve flicked his wrist out, gesturing between them. "This--this really jarring reality butting up against what I want to be real?" Steve wasn't sure why that came out as a question, but his struggle to voice his thoughts was mercifully cut short.

"What the fuck does that mean, or have to do with us, Steve?" Bucky spat out the question like it was burning his tongue.

"I just thought--"

"What? That I'm something you can do whatever you want with at night and ignore when the sun comes up? That I'm content with silence because I have never--"

"Will you listen to me, for once?" Steve saw Bucky clamp his mouth shut and inhale sharply through his nose. But he didn't say anything else. "God's sake, Bucky. You say you hate it when I don't pipe up, but when I try you jump down my throat. Which is it? Do you want me to tell you what I've been thinking or do you wanna talk over me?"

Steve waited for a response that didn't come. Bucky simply twisted the sleeve of his jacket hard between both hands, water cascading out of the weft of it with a loud splatter.

"When I'm with you, none of this even filters through to me. The war doesn't feel real and I can pretend that maybe things aren't all bad."

"Is that what I am to you? A distraction, Steve?"

"What? _No_ , Bucky. I would never say that."

"You also won't say anything else of use."

Steve didn’t recoil, but it was a near thing. He was left breathless with the need for Bucky to tell him what he wants from him, to needle him into saying what he needs Steve to say. But he was not a child. Something on his face must have read as hurt by the way Bucky's intense frown evened out a little. 

At some point during their fight, Bucky had gotten closer. Steve let out a heavy breath when water-cool fingers touched his cheek, his skin uncomfortably hot against Bucky's palm when it flattened to the curve of his cheekbone. Steve kept his eyes locked on the moonlight-brightened blue-gray of Bucky's gaze, tiredness ringed around them so obvious now that Steve was looking. Those fingers left a trail of moisture behind as he pulled his hand back. The silence stretched between them just long enough for Steve's shoulders to fall away from his ears and the angry spark to dull to something closer to the disappointment in Bucky's eyes.

"Think about it. _Ah_ ," Bucky said sharply when Steve opened his mouth. "All I'm asking is for you to figure out whatever the hell that fucking fruit metaphor was. I don't need a dumb analogy, I just want to know what you feel."

When Bucky suddenly shoved his sodden Commandos jacket into his hands, Steve scrambled to keep it from hitting the ground. Not that it would have made a difference if he let it gather more mud. "I--"

"Just hang onto it for a minute. If you want me to go to Stark's party I need to put my kit back on."

"Buck," Steve sighed. 

Bucky forced a smile on his face as he backed away. "I know, shoving my damp feet into my boots is just asking for trench foot."

"That's not what I meant."

"I know." Bucky sounded so tired for a moment. "And I want you to just… think about it, please. We can talk tomorrow, unless you want us both to be absent from the party and then what? People are more likely to talk." Bucky had trudged back to the grass as he spoke. He snatched his socks and boots from their perch on the tree and stooped down by its trunk. 

Steve followed, though slowly. Holding the jacket out at arm's length, he could see where the now dark blue fabric was stained with streaks of bright green algae and ground in mud. Whatever the hell Bucky thought he could do to clean this up he'd done the opposite. 

He snorted as he attempted to fold the destroyed article of clothing. Maybe Stark would be able to make Bucky a second -- third, now that Steve thought about it. The first caught fire early one morning when it was Bucky's duty to start the campfire. It wasn't that Bucky had been reckless, it was a confluence of his exhaustion, too dry tinder, and an apparently inflammable sleeve. Steve respectfully never brought that incident up to Bucky, who still sported a now silvery scar across the back of his left wrist.

Steve had given Stark a tank, another more flame-retardant jacket was a small ask. 

Once Bucky had finished lacing his boots over the cuffs of his pants, he stood and gave Steve a tight smile. It wasn't forced, but Steve could tell that he was actively trying to not be angry anymore and that always made Steve feel guilty. He smiled back, face feeling warm. As Bucky carefully tucked his non-standard issue tank top back in where it had rucked up his back, he made eye contact. Away from the water, without the moonlight reflecting so harshly across his face, he looked less severe. 

"What? I got something on my face?" Bucky asked, defiantly not turning his head even as he reached back to snag his tags from the tree. The brass clinked together in a familiar burst of delicate sound, loud and unmistakable. Steve couldn't help but watch, lips parted and tongue suddenly dry, as Bucky crammed the ball chain over his head. The tags gave one final clatter as they settled over the center of Bucky's chest, his own tag sitting higher than the one he had filched from Steve's pair. It always seemed to make him freeze, seeing Bucky wearing one of his tags alongside his own, like it belonged there all along. 

Some guys would give their chain and tags to their lady as a token of affection, a little thing to help remember them by when they had to keep moving. And some guys, Steve heard, swapped chains with each other. Bucky hadn't so much as asked Steve to wear his tag, but he had asked one night a few weeks back if he could have his secondary tag. Didn't make a big deal about it, though he did carefully ensure that no one was able to get a close look at the pieces of metal warmed by the heat of his skin. Maybe Steve had been too cowardly to reciprocate before, but now that he was staring at the way his name, his entire life distilled into a few lines of information on an inch of brass, was chained around Bucky's throat, he wanted that piece of Bucky in return.

"Steve? Gonna say something or do I need to go get help?" Bucky’s voice belied his concern even more than the furrows between his eyebrows did.

Startled, Steve shook his head. "I'm alright, just thinking."

"Yeah, we both know that isn't your strong suit."

"Hey." Steve's protest died quickly, turning into a breathy laugh when Bucky rolled his eyes. "Fair enough."

"I believe you said something about booze. Did Stark get the fancy stuff?" Bucky ran a cursory hand through his hair after he pulled his sweater on. It was just a little too big for him, but then again, Steve couldn't be sure that it wasn't actually his sweater that Bucky had filched from their tent.

"Not that I can tell the difference, but Dernier was saying it's locally made."

"Even better." Bucky clapped Steve on the shoulder and turned on his heels to head back to camp.

\--------

The crowd had thinned out slightly by the time Steve and Bucky emerged from the line of trees at the forest’s edge. More men were wobbling past them, heading back toward their tents as the two of them picked their way side by side across camp to the Officer's Mess. Steve was holding onto Bucky's jacket until it was yanked without warning from his hand and tossed into the freestanding trash barrel with a resounding wet slap. A brief flash of amusement flitted over Bucky's face before he ducked away, leaving Steve to follow stunned.

It was much easier to maneuver their way back to where the Howlies were stationed than it had been for Steve to leave. Bucky snagged two cups of murky liquor on their way past the table that still held an astonishing amount of drinks. Bucky slipped into the spot next to Morita Steve had abandoned earlier, and it seemed as if the Howlies had lost Dernier and Jones to a separate table off to the side. Whatever it was they were discussing, Steve didn’t wholly care to know. Likely included explosives that he couldn’t quite wrap his brain around, chemistry wise, if their hushed tone and the scrap of paper they were passing back and forth like serious schoolchildren was any indication. Let them have their fun where they could, he figured.

“Sarge!” Dugan bellowed, voice carrying over the din of the tent. His fair complexion was stained a blotchy red across his cheeks, and Steve bet that his forehead was damp with sweat under that ubiquitous bowler. His own collar was still damp from before he went looking for Bucky, and it was renewed with sweat in no time.

“Hey, fellas,” Bucky said with an easy geniality. The way he could slip right into any conversation with little effort was enviable. Steve had tried to replicate that through most of his early teen years, but gave up when it always ended awkwardly for him. There was some innate ability Bucky possessed that allowed him to make friends even in an empty room that left Steve simultaneously jealous and charmed. 

“Where were you, Barnes? Had to send Cap out after you,” Morita laughed and shifted his weight from foot to foot. By the way he wobbled, it was apparent that Dugan wasn’t the only one who had downed a couple of drinks in Steve’s absence. 

“Just wanted to get some air after being stuffed in that tank all day. Glad to know you missed me, though,” Bucky teased before taking a big mouthful of kirsch. The face he made after struggling to swallow the harsh liquor caused the usually stalwart Falsworth to guffaw.

"Easy there, Sarge. This is lethal stuff. Apparently Stark knows someone a couple of clicks out with an untouched distillery in their barn. Some cherry farmer.” The Englishman lifted his own whitewashed tin cup and swirled the liquid in it with a whorl of his wrist. “Did some favor for the bloke, I assume, in order to ferry in all of this.”

“You sure he didn’t fuck that farmer over?” Lifting his cup, Bucky peered into it, frowning hard. “Tastes like he’s trying to kill Howard and all of us are just collateral damage.”

“Can’t be sure that’s not the case, actually,” Falsworth shrugged. “There are worse ways to go.”

Steve took a careful sniff of the contents of his cup before taking a much smaller sip, and he nearly gagged on the taste. He could feel it burn all the way down his esophagus, and it sat heavily in his stomach. Whatever warmth that spread through his gut was short lived. All spark and no fire for him, not even smoke.

“Eau de vie is to be cherished,” Dernier said with such severity that Steve could not immediately tell if he was kidding. 

“Could be sold as ipecac,” Bucky muttered before taking a deep breath and raising the cup to his mouth. In one prolonged swallow he took down the remainder of his drink and didn’t even bother to hide the toothy grimace on his face as he inevitably felt it burn down his gullet. 

“You remember the time Mrs. Blake from 3F paid us to carry her groceries upstairs, Steve?”

“Yeah,” he replied, voice tentative. He hadn’t thought of their old neighbor in years. But the image of her, bundled in at least two sweaters and offering them a few coins to help her on a frigid Sunday afternoon, swam back to the surface of his mind readily. “Her husband had broken his foot and she was a tiny slip of nothing.”

Dugan had wandered off abruptly as Steve finished speaking, begging off for the latrine. 

“Mhmm,” Bucky nodded and huffed out a hollow laugh. Even though he was standing shoulder to shoulder with Steve, he wasn't looking at him. It didn’t seem he was really looking at anything. He fidgeted with the handle of his cup, clutched at it as if he were actively figuring out how much force he’d need to rend the thin curl of metal off the mug proper. Steve had caught him taking things apart just to have something to do with his hands many times before. “She paid you and sent you home, remember?"

"Yeah? Yes. You stuck around for a long time. I thought she'd asked you to help with some chores." Steve cocked his head to the side a little, trying to catch Bucky's gaze. But he was looking across the table, above Morita's head.

"That's because I let you think that. She wanted me to try the gin she was concocting in her bathtub. Didn't think you'd approve." 

By the sound of the laughter pouring out of the rest of the table, Steve realized he wasn't fully in control of his expression. He hadn't asked after Bucky's delinquency when he hadn't come home right after him, thinking Mrs. Blake had just kept him back to fix something leaky, maybe move something heavy.

"Of course not, but only because that probably would've killed me," Steve said, reigning his shocked expression in a bit.

"Felt a little like I was gonna die," Bucky shrugged, a little worrisome in its nonchalance. "But it was only a little worse than this stuff. Had to sit at her kitchen table for a long goddamned time to get my vision to stop swimming." Bucky smiled tightly when Steve clasped his shoulder, but still didn't look over at him. 

“I should have guessed that she was concocting her own booze by the way she always smelled of juniper.” Steve felt more than heard himself laugh, just a heavy breath as the pieces came together for him.

“How the hell did you know what juniper smells like? You never left New York before you snuck off to Paramus two years ago.” Bucky finally turned his head to look at Steve, eyebrows raised and furrows wrought deep across his forehead. He looked older in the halogen light than he had out by the river. And so very tired. The toll of the war on Bucky thus far was visible in the dark circles beneath his eyes that never seemed to fade and in the slightly forward hunch of his shoulders. A pained grimace flickered over Bucky’s face when Steve gently squeezed his shoulder, and he quickly dropped his hand back to his side.

“Probably figured it out when he came into contact with Monty,” Morita chuckled, voice muting itself once he brought his cup to his mouth. 

“You are just jealous that I can hold my liquor, Jim,” Falsworth shot back with an impressively impassive roll of his eyes. Steve was mildly jealous at that coolness.

With Steve’s attention being snatched away by the petty fight brewing between Morita and Falsworth, Bucky casually reached out to take Steve’s cup and didn’t really try to hide his intentions. Wondering briefly why he couldn’t hold onto his drinks, Steve simply sighed and said nothing. He didn't have to. What was his was always Bucky's. 

Seeing how Bucky had just poured the remainder of their drinks together, Steve was about to go find another when he spotted Howard approaching their corner of the tent clutching a bottle of what looked like champagne in one hand and his date close by his side. He caught the edge of Bucky's elbow high in his ribcage, a bid to keep him from wandering too far. With the way he pivoted on his heel, Steve’s boot dug a sharp divot into the dirt and planted him at the table.

"Maria, sweetheart, this is James," Howard said, indicating to Bucky. Bucky managed an actual smile for a brief moment.

"This fella right here is James," Howard continued, gesturing to Morita, who gave a short wave.

"And, I kid you not, this is also James." Howard nudged Falsworth with his elbow and the Englishman dipped his head in greeting.

"Over here we have--" 

"Let me guess," Maria said, interrupting Howard with an ease Steve found enthralling. It was nigh impossible to get the man to stop talking once he got going. "Another James?"

A bark of laughter tore out of Steve's throat before he could stop himself. Reaching out, he offered her his hand. "I'm Steve, ma'am." Maria took his hand and gave him a genial shake -- nothing too firm nor too dainty, but she had a solid, warm grip. There was no reason for her to try and grind the bones of his fingers together like so many men tried as they sized him up. 

“How disappointing,” she said, pulling an exaggerated pout. Maria’s laugh was bright and instantaneous as soon as she finished speaking, unable to keep up the faux disappointment. It was a sound that was more surprising than anything else as they didn’t really hear much unencumbered amusement these days. It didn’t seem as if she fully believed that three out of four of the men she had been introduced to all shared a name, but she was clearly enjoying herself all the same. Her dark brown eyes caught the light just right and he had to look away. Steve watched as all of Bucky’s attention shifted to the slight, dark haired woman just before the rest of the other commandos did the same. 

Howard had already taken the foil and cage off the bottle of champagne, and it took a moment to work the cork out with one hand. The loud pop made most of the table flinch, but an uneasy chuckle followed. “Sorry, gents. I couldn’t procure any flutes for this, so just hold up your cup if you want a slug.” 

There was a scramble to empty whatever cups everyone had in front of them -- Bucky threw back the probably too full contents of his while Falsworth discretely tipped his out into the dirt -- and Howard poured a generous amount in any cup that was pushed toward him. Maria didn’t have a cup, but Howard seemed to procure one for her out of nowhere, and was set to drink straight from the bottle himself.

“Let’s have a toast for Howie’s birthday!” Morita crowed as soon as the bubbles stopped overflowing in his cup. Though in his haste to raise it in the air some slopped over the rim and soaked into his shirtsleeve. 

“To health, wealth, and continued good taste!” Howard said, short and succinct with a wicked peal of laughter that was suppressed only by an eager press of Maria’s lips to his. When they parted, his lips were tinged with her deep pink lipstick and they were both grinning as everyone clinked their cups and lone bottle together. 

Steve didn’t quite enjoy the dry bubbles, as they seemed to stick in the back of his sinuses too long after he swallowed. He felt his cheeks flush lightly and he did his best to not cough. Before his cup could be purloined again, he poured the rest of his champagne right into Bucky’s mostly empty cup. “Too rich for my taste,” Steve joked when Bucky questioned him with a silent tilt of his head. But he drank it back all the same, throat working hard against the carbonation. 

“Aw, shit. Did I miss the good stuff?” Dugan asked as he rocked back up to the table, one massive hand wrapped around the neck of an unopened bottle of kirsch. He set it down on the table harder than he probably meant to, the thud of it making just Bucky jump visibly.

“Where the fuck were you -- never mind, that doesn’t matter -- I’ve got more. Hold on,” Howard said before holding up a finger and tilting the remnants of the champagne into his mouth one swallow after another. “Let’s go, Red. Since you were so nice to give me a present earlier.” Before moving away from the group, Howard leaned in to whisper something into Maria’s ear that had her smiling demurely and nodding with purpose. With a great smack to Dugan’s meaty shoulder, Howard led him to the stack of seemingly empty supply crates at the front of the tent. 

Bucky leaned forward to rest his right elbow on the table, propping his chin up on his open hand as he looked over at Maria. She seemed to zero right in on him as well, and suddenly Steve felt very much like he used to in the dance halls back home. Left to watch Bucky draw the attention of any woman within close proximity as he stood trying to blend into the background. “I heard you came a real long way to get here tonight, Miss,” Bucky said, his words a little drink-soft at the edges.

“Carbonell, but Maria works just fine, James,” Maria said as she deftly ducked around Morita to come up to Bucky’s left side. 

“Then you’re gonna have to call me Bucky. James is my first name, but as you can see, I have to share it with half the Army.” The lopsided smile that Bucky had on his face was the first genuine smile Steve had seen cross his features all night. The fact that it was directed at someone else made his stomach twist painfully.

“Bucky, alright, I can make that compromise,” Maria laughed and laid her hand on Bucky’s left forearm gently. “But yes, Howard -- that man is incorrigible. Cannot get an idea out of his head once he has it and must see it through. He picked me up at dawn and here we are." She waved her hand in a small circle and settled it back on Bucky's arm.

"You must like him an awful lot to let him take you to this dump." Bucky jerked his head back, indicating the frankly abysmal situation that was a trussed up field tent. "If someone brought me here on a date I would surely dump them."

Steve tried very hard to not react to what had to be a very purposeful dig at him. Not that Bucky would have noticed, as he was still holding Maria's gaze. Morita and Falsworth were looking at him, though, and he had to keep it together for their sake if not his own. 

"He really can charm the pants off of anyone," Morita said, loud enough for Bucky to hear. Not that the sniper made any indication of having done so. "What is it about big blue eyes that make ladies go crazy?"

"I can't honestly tell you, it's never worked for me." Steve honestly regretted giving Bucky his champagne right about now. Peering over, he saw that Bucky's cup was empty yet again. Well, that was worrisome. He was sure that Bucky hadn't eaten dinner before he'd gone off into the woods to desecrate his jacket, and they hadn't had time for lunch between raiding the base and stealing a tank. Steve had managed to not keel over as he had stopped by the mess tent on his way over to the officer's club, shoveling whatever food-like item was up for offer. The deepening flush high across Bucky's cheeks and nose was decidedly alcohol induced, and not at all whatever it was Maria had just said to him. Nope.

Even though he couldn't quite understand the language they were speaking -- when did Bucky pick up Italian? -- Steve could understand flirting, and he'd seen Bucky flirt more than enough times. Bucky was going to embarrass himself, Steve rationalized. Hitting on a pal's girlfriend was way out of line, even more so on said pal's birthday. But taking a moment to swallow back the vile taste of jealousy, Steve saw that he had no right to even be jealous. Howard? Sure. But not him. Not when he'd been so afraid to give what he felt for Bucky a name, even just to himself.

Besides, Bucky was digging out his wallet from his back pocket, fingers fumbling the bifold open so he could retrieve a well-loved picture from the space most men kept their Allied Military Currency bills. Okay, there wasn’t actually much genuine flirting going on here. The picture was sepia toned and smudged around the edges where Bucky's damp fingers had rubbed a few too many times. But the faces memorialized in perfect stillness were perfectly legible, even on the small matte square. 

Steve knew this picture well. It was from Christmas, '41. Winifred Barnes was seated on a plush looking stool, dressed to the nines, with an equally festive toddler perched on her lap. Behind her and slightly to her left stood George Barnes with a hand curled lovingly over his wife's shoulder. Bucky was a younger facsimile of George if Steve had ever seen one. Both George and Bucky had the same cleft chin and high set cheekbones, there was no mistaking the parentage there. Bucky clearly got his bright eyes from his father too, as the rest of the family shared Winifred's deep brown irises. Bucky stood next to his father in the picture, both of his hands holding onto the shoulders of the middle Barnes’ child, as if to keep the rambunctious Rebecca from running off. Ever the protective brother. All of the Barneses were smiling, even little Edith on her mother's lap was showing her tiny baby teeth, gaps and all. Steve had seen this picture more times than he could actually count, and could probably draw it from memory. He didn't know what it was like to have family waiting for him back home, but Steve knew Bucky was holding on for them.

There was nothing to be jealous over, Steve repeated to himself, as Bucky pointed to his little sisters and told Maria about them in great detail. She crowded in close to get a better look at the Barneses, her well manicured hand resting on Bucky’s wrist if only to steady his faintly shaking hand. There was true joy captured on paper, and Bucky loved nothing more than talking about his sisters to anyone who would listen. Including Maria, who was listening patiently and asking what had to be the right questions as Bucky’s eyes lit up in that way that always made Steve’s stomach flip. He could hear both of their voices, but none of the words really left a distinct impression in his mind.

How Steve didn’t notice the return of the ebullient man of the hour until Howard cropped up right behind Maria he could not work out. Dugan wasn’t far behind. Howard was laughing loudly and slinging an arm around Maria’s shoulders as he buddied up close to her and by proxy Bucky. There was a second bottle of champagne clutched loosely by its neck in Howard’s grip, and some of the liquid sloshed out as he gestured toward the picture.

“Enjoying ourselves, I see. Are we having show and tell time?” Howard asked as he ducked his head closer to peer at the image as Bucky drew it back toward himself defensively.

“Hey, watch it. You should know that liquid and paper don’t mix, genius,” Bucky huffed as he tucked the portrait safely back into his wallet and the wallet back into his pocket. 

“Yeah, yeah, don’t remind me,” Howard said, shaking his head. “You’re the one who spilled coffee all over the map last week, pal. Not me.”

“You sure made it easy, leaving mugs everywhere. I bet that coffee was a week old.” Bucky nudged his empty cup in Howard’s direction and without even thinking the man poured out a good portion into it. “Thanks, but if you didn’t leave cups everywhere I wouldn’t have shit to knock over, it’s that simple.”

“Hey, I can’t help that I get distracted by the endless requests for bigger guns and better jackets. You lot are always interrupting my work and I forget where I put my drinks.” Howard gestured to the Howlies at large. 

“Looks like you never forget where you put your booze,” Falsworth cut in, thankfully derailing whatever bizarre fight Howard and Bucky were picking at. “Speaking of, where did you even meet this cherry farmer?”

Thankful for the display of a tact that most of them lacked, Steve found himself tuning out the sound of Howard explaining the bizarre circumstances that had led him to be able to buy all of this alcohol. Maria interjected here and there with a witty rejoinder that had Howard eyeing her proudly, and it was honestly very sweet to see the easy back and forth that they had. Bucky was watching them attentively too, and all traces of amusement had fled from his features. In fact, Bucky looked close to tears and Steve knew that he had had enough.

“C’mon, it’s time to call it a night,” Steve said quietly to Bucky. Falsworth and Morita were both too engrossed in the story being spun in front of them to notice Steve taking a step back from the table. That was for the best, and he mentally thanked Howard for playing the part of a distraction as he settled his hand on Bucky’s lower back to get his attention when he didn’t respond.

“Yeah, alright.” Bucky eventually muttered. He abandoned the half-finished champagne but snatched up the full bottle of kirsch that Dugan had left behind in his search for better libations. 

As Bucky also stepped back, Dugan pulled up to the empty spot that they left and gave them a grateful nod. “Have a good night, Cap. Sarge, make sure he doesn’t get up at the crack of dawn expecting us to do calisthenics.”

“I can’t control him and you know it, but I’ll do my best,” Bucky said, patting Dugan on the shoulder before he turned away. If anyone else was aware of them leaving they didn’t say anything, much to Steve’s solace.

He hadn’t realized how warm he had been in the tent until he got outside. The temperature had dropped significantly as nighttime settled heavily over camp, and it didn’t bother Steve all that much. In fact, he relished the relief that the night air provided him. Bucky was tipping his face up toward the sky, eyes closed even as he took some shaky steps in the general direction of their tent. Steve watched him toddle along for a few feet before coming up beside him.

“You doing ok?” Steve asked as he tentatively reached to take Bucky’s free hand. And Bucky let him hold it for a moment before he pulled away. The loss of Bucky’s hand in his felt like a slap across the face, but maybe he deserved it.

Bucky’s answer was a sharp little laugh that morphed into full on laughter as he started to walk a little faster. His steps were no more coordinated though, and Steve sped up to keep pace with him, hoping the other man didn’t fall.

And though he didn’t see Bucky trip, he did stop abruptly and sit down on the well-trodden dirt path, still laughing. Bucky was breathless with mirthless laughter now, bending over at the waist to drape himself over his own knees as Steve stood bewildered beside him. He watched as Bucky fumbled with the corked bottle of kirsch before managing to pry it open and bring it to his lips to take a few painful sounding gulps. Bucky winced as he forced the cork back in, but he started laughing again all the same once he caught his breath.

It took too long for Steve to realize that Bucky wasn’t laughing anymore, but had started crying instead. He couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment where Bucky’s uncontrollable laughter stuttered and shifted into sobs, but he was now standing frozen above the other man, helpless.

“I can’t,” Bucky panted between sobs. He let go of the bottle of liquor and laid back in the dirt. “I can’t, I can’t,” he repeated as tears streaked out of the corners of his eyes, soaking into his sideburns as he looked glassy-eyed up at the stars. “I can’t do this.”

Steve felt a hot wave of panic course through him all at once, his heart seizing in his throat as Bucky unraveled in front of him. Unsure of what to do, he kicked at the bottle of kirsch and sent it rolling into the grass far enough away that Bucky couldn’t reach for it again. Not that he noticed. Bucky had gotten both hands up over his face, heels of his palms digging into his eyes as if that would stop the tears.

Kneeling down beside Bucky, Steve reached out to gently grab both of Bucky’s elbows and let out a quiet sigh when the man didn’t jerk away from him. Though the resigned way he tried to still himself the moment Steve touched him only served to shove Steve’s heart even further up his throat. Steve didn’t have the luxury to dwell on his own feelings right now, not when he needed to get Bucky back to their tent. 

“Buck, Bucky -- it’s ok.” And Steve winced at himself because wasn’t that what set Bucky off in the first place? Asking if he was ok seemed to make something in Bucky snap. “We’re so close to the tent, it’s not that far. I’m sorry,” Steve said, the words tumbling out of his mouth in a frenzy. But Bucky’s body started shaking with renewed sobs.

He couldn’t leave Bucky lying there in the dirt, not in the middle of camp. Feeling desperate, Steve bent over to get his hands under Bucky’s shoulders and guided him back up into a seated position. His hands stayed glued firmly to his eyes, but the tears trailed down the side of his cheeks instead.

“You can’t stay here, Buck, I’m sorry, we have to go.” Steve looked over his shoulder, and the fact that no one was around was a godsend. He leaned in close, got his hands under Bucky’s armpits, and guided him up to his feet. While Bucky didn’t resist being picked up, he was not exactly helping Steve balance him against his side. There were still tears pouring down his face, snot dripping down from his nose that he wiped at lazily with the back of a hand. His shoulders were shaking even as Steve curled his arm around Bucky’s waist.

There were no protests as Steve managed to get them both back to their tent. The Howlies were sequestered away from the rest of the infantrymen, and there was enough space between their tents that he couldn’t hear a sound from the others on a normal night. Wrangling the flap with one hand, Steve managed to get Bucky to walk into the tent in front of him with a gentle shove. Thankfully, he didn’t trip, and instead immediately sank down onto the cot set up on the right side of the tent, usually Steve’s side. He doubled over immediately, almost crumpled in on himself with his elbows pressing to his knees and his hands shoved deep in his hair, overlapping at the back of his head. By the time Bucky had stopped moving and the cot had stopped creaking under him, the tears had finally stopped, but the sniffling hadn’t.

Steve lit the oil lamp perched on the small folding table before doing anything else. He rooted around in his rucksack to find a handkerchief and the stash of emergency rations he had squirreled away due to that persistent voice in the back of his mind that never seemed to quiet. Snagging a tube of M&Ms, Steve came to kneel on the ground in front of Bucky. 

“Hey,” he said softly, reaching out with the handkerchief to wipe at the wetness still clinging to Bucky’s cheeks. Emboldened by the fact that he wasn’t being stopped or shoved away, Steve carefully wiped all the residual tear tracks away. “I’m sorry,” Steve said so softly he wasn’t sure if he had actually said it out loud or if it was in his head. But when Bucky finally looked him in the eyes, Steve knew that he had. There was a deep sadness lurking behind the icy blue that Bucky must have been doing his best to hide for so long. They all did -- tamping down the disgust and horror and abject sadness that came part and parcel with war just to be able to go on another day. Steve hadn’t known what it was going to be like when he sat in all of those recruiting offices. Couldn’t have guessed that the endless marching and fighting would eat away at him as much as it did. The righteous valor he had felt when Erskine had chosen him to be the perfect soldier had burned up and left him with more questions and ash than he knew what to do with.

But they never talked about what they were doing here. How it felt to be killing and claiming they were doing the right thing, even though they were. Steve knew they were on the right side of the war, and history would only prove that later on in the books that were bound to be written. But that didn't make it any easier to see the pain wrought clear and bright in Bucky's eyes. 

"I'm so sorry," Steve said with more conviction. He wiped at Bucky's nose gingerly and dropped the piece of cloth off to the side. Reaching up, he brushed his thumb over Bucky's cheekbone and curled his palm around the side of his jaw. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen."

"Didn't you?" Bucky croaked, his voice thick. Though he tilted his face into Steve's hand, he looked at him like he was waiting for Steve to punch him in the teeth. Maybe he felt like he already had. That was the same look Bucky had given him when they'd gotten to the 107th after marching back from Azzano. A little bitter and a lot mad. "You did this," Bucky dropped a hand from his hair to jab a finger solidly into Steve's pec, "on purpose."

Steve gaped a little and snapped his jaw shut because there was no arguing that point. He did volunteer for the experiment, had tried to volunteer for service multiple times. Not that he would have been drafted. 

"Philips tried to send me home," Bucky admitted after clearing his voice. "But I begged him to let me stay here. After Azzano -- after what they did to me there, he wanted to send me to the hospital, get me discharged. But I couldn't."

Bucky wasn't making much sense to Steve, but he wasn't sure if it was because he could now hear the deafening rush of blood in his ear drums as his heart rate spiked or because the man in front of him was drunk. Or maybe because Steve couldn't believe that Bucky would honestly stay if he was given the opportunity to go home to his family.

Seizing the opportunity of Steve's gobsmacked silence, Bucky kept talking. "Couldn't leave you here even if you looked like this… Just because you look like you could take care of yourself without me now doesn't mean you can. I mean, you salute your sniper all the time and I can't understand why."

"You stayed because of me?" Steve asked bluntly when Bucky started going off on a tangent. 

"Yeah. I... wasn't fine, but I'd have been less fine if I weren't with you." Bucky's lip quivered ominously for a moment before he bit it sharply and looked away from Steve.

"Buck." Steve couldn't even pinpoint what the tone of his voice was, but he felt his voice constricting around that one syllable. 

“You didn’t go to basic, not really. I knew you didn’t, I’d heard about the new… the war bonds.” Bucky started and stopped talking, and right when Steve was going to interject, he continued. “That they got a guy, the Army had a mascot shilling war bonds, called him Captain America. Started up like four weeks after I got over here. And then you showed up.” Bucky was looking right into Steve’s face now, eyes glassy and limned with such sadness. “You showed up and you were -- big. Bigger, still big. Not my Steve, not the Steve I left at home, but still you.” The little sound that followed was wet and not quite a laugh or a sob. Something in between. “And I knew you weren’t given any sorta training. Couldn’t leave you to do this alone.”

All of the air was forced out of Steve’s lungs, clueless as to how to begin to digest any of what Bucky was saying. ‘Not my Steve’ echoed so loudly in his skull that he knew he wouldn’t be getting any sleep tonight. He felt his mouth open and shut a few times in the face of sheer speechlessness, and he must have been out and out gaping at Bucky for the way those almost grays in the low lamp light eyes gained a sudden focus.

“I didn’t want to leave you,” Bucky said emphatically, as if Steve were a toddler not understanding the very important topic of not touching a hot stovetop. 

“You should have,” Steve said when he unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth.

“No,” Bucky retorted immediately, so emphatic that Steve recoiled.

“I pulled you off a table in a science lab--”

“I know! I was there, Steve! I was the one strapped down for fucking days getting needles shoved every--everywhere,” Bucky hissed, leaning forward, speaking almost directly into Steve’s face.

“Then you should have gone home, gone to England to recover, something. You didn’t need to be here,” Steve said, voice pitched low as Bucky didn’t back up.

“Neither did you.”

There was no arguing with Bucky, not now, not while he was clearly starting to feel all of the alcohol he had thrown back if the way he had to hold onto the edge of the cot were any indication. Bucky also wasn’t wrong. He had wanted to be here, didn’t need to be. But he hadn’t known, truly, what he was getting into besides getting the chance to make a difference.

“Fine,” Steve said with a sigh. “You’re right, Buck. You--you’re _right_.” He shrugged both shoulders, the tube of M&Ms rattling in his hand like a child’s toy. Frowning, Steve tore the top of the cardboard off and held it up. “And there’s nothing I can do to change that, can I? I can’t go back to the size I was before any easier than I can stop fighting.”

“So, shut up, then. You’re here, I’m here, and unless the war ends tomorrow that’s not gonna be any different.” Bucky seemed to deflate all at once, shoulders slumping and head ducking enough that his hair flopped over and brushed Steve’s forehead. 

“Alright,” Steve said softly, settling back onto his heels. Without looking, he dumped out a few candies into his left palm before offering his hand up to Bucky, “Can you please eat a couple of these? I know you didn’t eat dinner.”

The look Bucky leveled him was equal parts confusion and affront. “I hate chocolate,” Bucky muttered.

“I know you like the crunchy outside. It’s all I got besides those awful biscuits you always just give to me anyway. And cigarettes, but you can’t eat those.” Steve was trying his best to coax Bucky out of his sulking and to maybe pick a couple of the candies out of his cupped palm. “Did you say you liked the violet ones the most?”

Reluctantly, Bucky wiped a hand across the thigh of his pants before reaching out to pluck one of the candies from the small pile. “They taste different than the others.”

Steve had to bite his tongue to stop himself from saying that they all tasted the same -- like so much sugar that Steve had never been able to afford before being on the front lines. The candies and candy bars that were included in their C-rations had provided him with more sweets than he had had in all his previous years of life combined. Sometimes, Steve would eat them first, but more frequently he had been stashing them away for later, even if the familiar tight pull of hunger was making him nauseated. It would pass, it always did.

He watched as Bucky simply looked at the pale purple candy he held delicately between two fingertips. As if hyper-aware of being watched (though, how could he miss it with Steve kneeling on the ground at his feet), Bucky stuck out his tongue and pressed the candy into the center of it. He didn’t chew it, Steve noticed, but then again, he never did seem to chew his M&Ms. Bucky was letting the food coloring and sugar dissolve on his tongue, revealing the dreaded chocolate center that he let turn to sludge that he could easily swallow. Steve had never seen someone take so long to eat a single piece of candy.

But Bucky was picking up a couple more of the candies from Steve’s palm and placed them all in his mouth at once. Neither of them spoke as he repeated the process until Steve was empty handed. If Bucky didn’t notice that Steve carefully tipped a few more candies from the tube into his hand as he sucked the coating off the ones in his mouth, Steve would never admit to it. Tossing the empty tube toward his rucksack, Steve wiped his slightly tacky hands against each other, just spreading the residual sugar around. 

Bucky was wavering when he tried to sit up straight and started pawing at the hem of his sweater. Without hesitating, Steve sat up on his knees and gently knocked Bucky’s fumbling hands aside to help. There was no resistance, thankfully, as Bucky slowly raised his arms so the thick, olive colored material could be pulled easily up over his head.

Steve had to stand up to effectively peel the dirtied jeep sweater over Bucky’s head and arms, and when he had freed the other man from his woolen confines, Steve watched as he sighed in relief. He must have been sweating quite a bit, as Steve felt the dampness of the wool as he struggled to fold it even a little bit before tossing it toward the other man’s belongings. Leaving Bucky in his tank top with his arms exposed, Steve took a moment to look him over.

There was a bright red bloom of a promising bruise starting at the right side of Bucky’s collarbone, leeching all the way to the edge of his shoulder. Steve hadn’t seen it when they were out by the river, but it was as evident now as a neon sign with Bucky sat in front of him. It was the same spot where muddied splashes of purples and blues and browns would show up after a mission when he had to use his sniper-rifle. There was nothing to do for the recoil but take it. The thin sleeve of his tank top did nothing to hide it, the butt of Bucky’s rifle having stamped a bleeding-edged shape into his skin. 

This wasn’t the first time Steve had seen this shape outlined on Bucky’s shoulder, but it pained him all the same to see it. No wonder Bucky had flinched away from his hand at the party. Steve should have known better. 

Crouching back down, Steve started to unlace Bucky’s boots one at a time, fingers nimbly tugging at tight knots and loosening them enough to be able to slip them off his hopefully not too damp feet. There was no fight from Bucky, and it seemed like he was just happy to not have to get undressed on his own. As he wrestled with the left boot, Steve was surprised to find a dog tag secured to an eyelet and tucked into the space just beside the arch of Bucky’s foot. He hadn’t even thought of what Bucky had done with his own second tag after he had filched Steve’s. With a quick pinch of the fastener, he was able to slip the ball chain off of the boot, and within a few thunderous beats of his own heart he managed to close it around the chain hanging from his own neck. There was no real sound to him pulling his singular tag out from the collar of his shirt, but it clanged obviously enough once he had Bucky’s information co-mingling with his own.

Bucky was watching him curiously, but silently. Steve wondered idly what Bucky was actually seeing, if anything at all.

Quickly tucking the tags back under his collar, Steve made quick work of the right boot and both of Bucky’s socks. At least he’d have time to air out his boots.

“Thank you, Stevie,” Bucky murmured, consonants lilting together. But all the fight had gone out of him.

“You’re welcome, Buck. Just lemme get your belt…” Steve said, looking up into those familiar eyes. There was a quiet longing there, masked a little with exhaustion. Stretching up just a little, Steve planted a tentative kiss to the corner of Bucky’s lips -- all affection, no heat. And still his heart was still thundering like a stampede of wild horses in his chest. Bucky’s face softened as he laid back on the cot to let Steve get to his belt. Dispatching it quickly, Steve got up to actually put away the other man’s clothing. He was always the messier of the two, and the apartment they had shared was only ever clean when Bucky was the one doing the cleaning.

Bucky was struggling with the thin blanket he was half lying on, and Steve smiled to himself a little as he helped him. Steve never really used the barely flexible blanket as he ran hot these days, but Bucky always liked to swaddle himself in whatever covers he could find, even when they were home and it was almost a hundred degrees with the windows open at night. Now was no different. 

Getting Bucky settled in his own cot left Steve to spend the night in Bucky’s. Occasionally they would pull their bedrolls from their perch on the cots and settle them on the ground so that they could sleep side by side. Some modicum of comfort eked out of old habits went a long way so far from home. But there was no reason to jostle Bucky now that he was settled. So Steve turned off the lamp, undid his own boots, stripped down to his underclothes, and laid himself down on the too-short bed. 

He laid on his back, staring up at the canvas roof of the tent, still able to make out the color in the darkness. There was a time where he couldn’t quite tell the difference between red and green, and now he could see in the dark -- so much had changed in the span of a few short years that given a moment, like now, to think about it made his head spin. 

Reaching up, he toyed idly with the oblong pieces of stamped brass resting against the hollow of his throat. The metal had slid and pooled there as soon as he was horizontal. Bucky’s information felt so foreign under the tips of his fingers, the shape of ‘James B Barnes’ excruciatingly intimate in contrast to his own ‘Steven G Rogers’.

How different would tonight have been if he had just asked Bucky for his tag weeks ago in exchange for his own?

Maybe not as catastrophically. Who knows. He couldn’t normally dwell on the what ifs of every misstep he made or else he would never take another step again. But this was different. This was Bucky, and Steve owed it to him to stop dragging his feet. Poking at that left him uncomfortable, the cot squealing its displeasure as he shifted with it. He loved Bucky. He knew he did. It was always bubbling there under the surface.

Then why was it so hard to face him and say it? 

There was fear, that he could also recognize begrudgingly in himself. Afraid of losing Bucky, at first, when he didn’t know if his feelings were reciprocated. Fear of being found out soon followed when it was clear that he wasn’t the only one pining. But he was adept at being invisible, at hiding, and they could manage well enough in the shadows.

Steve could hear Bucky breathing evenly from across the small tent. He let himself listen to the proof of the man’s vitality and tried to match the cadence of his breaths. Sure that the man was asleep, he spoke softly into the darkness of the tent.

“I love you,” he whispered, though not at all unsure. There was no immediate response, and Steve realized he was hearing the pounding of his heart in his ears. Taking a few steady gulps of air, he relaxed back into the makeshift bed and tried closing his eyes. As if that would help him find respite in sleep.

“I hate that you’re here.” The darkness spoke to him. Bucky was slurring and his voice was drowned out by the soft cacophony of the cot as he turned his back to Steve.

“What?” Steve wasn’t sure if he had heard him correctly, though he was unquestionably sure that Bucky had not heard him correctly. “Buck?” he prompted when he got no response from the darkness.

“I hate it here. No one likes it, it’s -- just lemme sleep,” Bucky trailed off, clearly already halfway to unconsciousness. 

Another disconnect, Steve thought bitterly, but at least Bucky wasn’t telling him that he hated Steve. That was something that possibly would have struck Steve dead in his tracks. Sighing to himself, he draped a forearm over his eyes to completely block out any ambient light. Maybe if he pretended to be asleep his brain would actually cooperate and fall quiet. The soft snores that started up from the other side of the tent were crucial in lulling him to sleep as Steve lost himself in counting the snuffling noises.


	3. Mail Call

Steve woke up in Bucky’s cot some time after dawn. He hadn’t realized that he had even fallen asleep, but he must have if the sticky weight of his eyelids was any indication. He blinked slowly up at the canvas and could tell that it was closer to lunch than he was comfortable with by the way the sunlight was lighting up the fabric. The faint sound of the bugle calls from camp proper told him that it was far too late to be lying about in bed. Swearing to himself, Steve pushed himself upright and ran a hand through his hair as he oriented himself. It was then that he realized his cot was empty; Bucky had left at some point while Steve was asleep. 

It didn't take him all that long to change into fresh clothes and comb his hair into some semblance of order, though Steve doubted he’d be the roughest looking one after last night. He didn’t know how long the others had stayed in the Officer’s Mess, and he figured that he really didn’t want to. There weren’t many opportunities to let loose these days.

The sun was beating down on him as he left to head towards camp. He needed to eat something before his stomach started eating itself; it didn’t matter if the powdered eggs were too dry, though lately they had been too wet. Who knew what you’d get, but whatever it was, Steve was usually grateful for a hot meal that didn’t come out of a little aluminum can he had to cook himself. Or not cook at all. Bucky had always looked at him aghast when he just opened the cans of spaghetti with the key and ate it with his spoon. There was no point in making more dishes, was Steve’s usual response. But more often than not, Steve was eating just because he had to.

Camp was more alive now in the late morning with the day’s duties well underway. Steve slunk across the dirt paths to find the mess hall thankfully still serving breakfast. He nodded and thanked the Corporal dishing out the dregs of eggs and meat of questionable origin, took a couple extra pieces of toast, and scanned the rows of haphazard picnic style benches. Spotting an unmistakable head of red hair, Steve crossed the tent to sit himself down across from a weary looking Dum Dum and peaky looking Morita. 

Neither of them were talking or eating, really, but Dugan was sipping slowly at a mug of what passed for coffee. Steve watched while he chewed a little and made a face in sympathy.

“You guys look positively sunny this morning,” Steve said before shoveling a giant spoon of eggs into his mouth. They were wet today, but that made it easier to just swallow them down without tasting them. The meat turned out to be pork, and thankfully he only had two small bits that he speared and chewed down rather quickly.

“Ah, shut it. Captain.” Morita tacked on the rank as an afterthought.

“I’m a bit hungover,” Dugan muttered, bowler hat sitting on the table next to his elbow. “Jimmy’s a lot hungover.”

“Yeah? You two stick around the party for a while?” Steve tried his best to keep from smirking too much. Suddenly finding himself to be starving, he managed to hide his amusement by devouring his breakfast.

“Stumbled back to my tent around 03:30, I think Dummy wasn’t far behind.” Morita puffed out a heavy breath and leaned an elbow on the table to prop his face in his palm.

“I half carried you back, are you still drunk?” Dugan asked with a sharp laugh that made both himself and Morita wince from the pitch of it.

“Might be. The room is spinning. Dunno how Barnes looked so put together,” Morita groused.

Steve nearly choked on the sulfuric sludge he’d just shoved into his mouth in his haste to swallow it. He coughed into his shoulder and managed to not see himself dead in the middle of a miserable breakfast. “Buck was here?” he managed to ask once he got himself under control. 

“Yeah, I reckon you just missed him by a couple of minutes,” Dugan said as he grimaced down at the dredges of his mug. He eyed Steve’s for a moment, and Steve reflexively snatched his coffee cup closer, keeping his fingers looped through the handle.

“Could have sworn he drank more than I did.” Morita closed his eyes and looked for all the world to be asleep, though his frown grew pronounced whenever anyone made too much noise.

“How is that even possible? He got there nearly an hour after you and left well before you, too,” Dugan sighed, steeling himself before dumping the rest of the gritty coffee into his mouth. He was definitely chewing now.

“Did you see how fast he was throwing them back, though?” Morita turned his face to press his forehead against his open hand.

“Not only that, he stole two of my drinks,” Steve interjected. He was almost done with his eggs, and though he knew better, he all but inhaled the remnants in order to leave without wasting any semi-edible food.

“See? He was just as drunk as the rest of us,” Morita muttered, paused, and then added, “Besides Cap.”

“Yeah, so he sure as shit was drunk, but maybe he did something smart and ate something or drank water before he passed out with his full uniform on.” 

Steve had managed to not have anything in his mouth when he snorted, thankfully. The image of Bucky petulantly sucking on an M&M swam to the forefront of his mind. “So he just left? He say where he was heading or was he just as down and out as you guys?” Unfolding his napkin, Steve tucked his toast as neatly as he could into it and pocketed the bread bundle. Thankful for the extra pockets he had insisted on, much to Howard’s chagrin.

“He was eager to get out to mail call. Bet he’s waiting on a package from home or something by how quick he left once he remembered what day it was.” Dugan shoved his hat back on his head and looked ready to get out of the mess and go back to bed for a few hours. “We got that 14:00 meeting with Stark, right? Something about a train, I think.”

Steve stood up and pushed his untouched coffee across the table to the redhead. Dugan took it gratefully with a nod. “Sorry I forgot to grab sugar, but I don’t think that makes it any better. I’ll see you guys out there, maybe. Definitely at 14:00.” Grabbing his tray, Steve hurried out of the Mess after dumping his dirty dishware in the bin by the door. 

Steve could hear the chattering of the camp coming largely from the West, where a small green was staked out for gatherings. Following the sound of excited chatter, he soon found himself flanked by several men he’d only seen in passing before. 

Mail call was always bittersweet. The entire 107th scrambled to assemble as orderly as possible so that they could get their letters from home. It was the only bit of normalcy most of the men had these days, and the eagerness flickering though camp was unmistakable.

It was hard not to be jealous. Steve wasn’t the only guy who would be missing out on a missive today, but he was likely the only one who would be without mail, again, for the entire duration of his service. Sometimes letters missed the cut off from the postmaster and a guy had to wait another two weeks for the next olive drab sack of letters. The NCOs in charge of sorting and packing the mail out in England had a lot of letters and parcels to go through before they were sent on over to the continent. Letters written at the beginning of April would likely only be getting to them now at the start of May, if they were lucky. 

Victory mail was faster to send and less likely to be censored, something they learned after a few of their regular letters had been delivered shorn open and blacked out. The first letter Dernier had gotten from his wife had been half-stricken through with indelible black marks that had made all of them laugh as they made up more and more preposterous suggestions for what could have been so salacious (or dangerous, Falsworth had pointed out) that the poor sap reading it had gotten so heavy handed. His wife only sent V-letters after that.

Steve just didn’t have anyone at home to write him any sort of mail.

Still, he stuck around the perimeter of men, anxiously waiting for a piece of home. It was nice to see the joy that flitted over the faces of these guys, some of them boys, when they got word from home, from a girlfriend or wife, especially. 

Hell, all of them were eager for a reprieve from the dirt under their boots and fingernails, and Steve wanted to at least pretend his name was going to be called this time. He got to hear what the other men hoped to be getting in twine-wrapped bundles as he listlessly walked around the crowd.

“Miriam was supposed to have our kid by now,” one young-faced Private said as he wrung his hands so tightly together Steve could see a bloom of white at his knuckles. “Wonder if I’ve got a son or a little girl.”

"Chances are likely one of those," his friend said, sarcasm somehow made more palatable with a thick Southern drawl.

The Private opened his mouth to reply but was cut off by another baby-faced kid leaning in close. “Hope whatever kid you helped to make looks like its mother." Steve hastily covered his snort of laughter with a cough.

“Real funny, Henry. I hope no girl is ever dumb enough to marry you...” The nervous Private didn’t seem so nervous anymore as Steve stepped away. 

Ducking along the outskirts of the gathering, Steve finally spotted Bucky hanging out alone several yards back from the crowd, perched defiantly on the hood of the postmaster’s Jeep. His thighs were splayed wide, as if trying to take up as much space as he possibly could. 

There was a quiet, uneasy expression on his face that Steve wanted to soothe away. Was he waiting for someone else to come join him? Or was he waiting for a CO to come over and try and tell him off, looking for a reason to get in trouble? Steve had a hundred questions fighting their way to his lips as he approached the Jeep.

"Why'd you let me drink so much?" Bucky asked before Steve could get any of his questions out. His misery was probably last night's alcohol mixing poorly with this morning's runny eggs. 

Steve's eyebrows arched up, incredulity writ large across his face. "Let you? I could hardly keep up with you. Not only that, you stole my drinks."

Bucky grunted his displeasure and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

“If you’re going to puke, please don’t do it on me,” Steve said, even though he was leaning closer to briskly pat Bucky on the back. If his hand lingered between Bucky’s shoulder blades no one needed to know.

“Joke’s on you, already hurled my guts up about two hours ago. Stomach’s finally settled.” Bucky pulled a face and let his hands fall against the hood of the Jeep between his thighs. 

“You should probably have something else to eat, then.” Steve kept his hand on Bucky’s back, rubbing imperceptibly small circles between his shoulders. His mouth was dry and he could feel his heart beating wildly in his temples. It felt dangerous to be touching Bucky in any capacity, especially out in the open. But Bucky subtly leaned back into the touch and didn’t even look over at Steve.

“I’ll eat when they’re serving dinner. Or maybe you’ll force feed me candies again,” Bucky teased. He was sounding better than both Morita and Dugan, at least. Maybe expelling last night had been helpful. 

The last time Steve had gotten drunk, Bucky had dragged him out to a dance hall in Queens. He had watched as Bucky twirled a bright eyed blonde girl around the room, her soft looking pink skirt flaring about her like fanfare as he clutched a too expensive Manhattan. He remembered vividly that Bucky had cajoled him into coming out, offering to put whatever Steve wanted on his tab if he had just come out to dance. Well, Steve hadn’t done much dancing and he’d spent the night fishing dark cherries out of the bottom of his glass. When Bucky had gotten him home, Steve had seen those cherries’ violent return as he heaved into the kitchen sink, unable to make it to the bathroom. He vividly recalled Bucky pressing close, smelling like his dance partner’s floral perfume, and so warm as he pressed close to help Steve stay standing. The rest of the night had been a blur.

Steve could almost taste that cloying sweetness as he licked his lips. “Well, you’re shit out of luck because I don’t have any candy on me, but I do--”

“--Steve, if you try to feed me whatever the hell you squirreled away in your pocket I _will_ end up vomiting on you, I promise.” Bucky was laughing a little, but his tone was entirely serious.

“Aright, but for the record, it’s just some dry toast.” Steve let his hand slip to the small of Bucky’s back, removing it only when Bucky sat up straight and canted his head to peer at him through tired eyes.

“There wasn’t any toast when I was in the mess before.” Bucky dug a heel into the grill of the Jeep and used it to scoot closer to the edge of the vehicle. Now perched on the edge closer to Steve, Bucky was looking at him with interest.

Steve pulled his hand away from Bucky’s back in order to pull his little bundle of pilfered bread out of the deep pocket on the outside of his thigh. Before he could even pull back the cloth napkin Bucky was grabbing at the bundle and balancing it on his knee closest to Steve.

“Thought you were gonna puke on me if I gave you food, Buck,” Steve said, eyebrows raised and a breathy laugh betraying how stunned he was at how fast the food was snatched.

“Yeah, well, I thought you were trying to pawn that gray, greasy meat they were trying to call pork off on me. Pork is fine, but that stretches the definition of the word. Bread I can do.” Bucky gave Steve a little smile before biting off a corner of the heavily toasted white bread. Crumbs showered his lap and the hood of the Jeep as Bucky made quick work of the first piece.

“You actually thought I’d shove meat into my pockets and walk around with it just dripping grease down my leg?” Steve couldn’t hide his incredulity if he wanted to, and he didn’t want to.

“You’ve put worse in odder places,” Bucky said from around a mouthful of dry toast.

Steve felt his cheeks flush a deep pink that only served to make Bucky smirk at him with his cheeks full of bread. “Bucky,” Steve hissed, swiping a piece of toast petulantly as some sort of punitive measure.

“What?” Bucky asked, the dark circles under his eyes betraying the feigned innocence he was trying to sell. 

Steve wasn’t buying it, and he looked away from Bucky for a moment to will his face back into a normal shade. Tearing a chunk of the crust off the purloined toast, Steve stuffed it in his mouth and worked it around with his tongue for too long. It got stuck to the roof of his mouth and he had to dig it out with a finger. Swallowing thickly, he turned back to face Bucky who was looking right at him.

“Y’know, when I went to put on my boots this morning I noticed something—” Bucky started, but was cut off by the otherworldly squeal of a loudspeaker that made both of them wince and turn toward the sound.

“Attention please. Attention please. We will start distributing mail alphabetically. When you hear your name called, please come forward as quickly as possible. If you do not hear your name called and we pass over your letter, please disperse so we can wrap this up as quickly and efficiently as possible.” The tinned voice relayed the same instructions it always did to the mass of men growing more anxious by the passing minute. The want of a letter was a mighty big motivator.

Shaking his head, Steve turned back to Bucky who was shoving the third and final piece of toast into his mouth practically whole. “I don’t know the heimlich, Bucky, Jesus,” Steve muttered. Bucky just chewed emphatically in Steve’s direction until he could reasonably swallow the lump of bread in his mouth.

“As I was saying, I noticed something was missing when I went to get dressed this morning.” Bucky looked like he needed a drink of water, but unfortunately, Steve had not stolen any liquids from the Mess. 

“I put everything I took off of you where it belonged. I didn’t want to hear you whining at me.” Steve felt his stomach turn and it had nothing to do with breakfast. He watched Bucky’s playful gaze roll skyward.

“Is that so? I whine at you for being a slob, sure. But maybe if you just put things back I wouldn’t have to whine,” Bucky said pointedly. He looked away at Steve to brush the crumbs off of his lap, shook out his shirt a little, and planted one foot up onto the hood of the Jeep. Leaning forward, he managed to snag Steve’s mangled piece of toast from his hand. “But you’re just trying to get me ruffled up. Stop it.”

Steve had no witty rejoinder for that, even if he hadn’t been chastised. He watched Bucky chew on the crumpled toast for a moment, and crossed his arms over his chest as he waited as patiently as he physically could. 

“Show me your tags,” Bucky demanded once he finished chewing. There was a challenge in his blue gray eyes that was softened by something Steve couldn’t quite place. Fondness, maybe.

Nodding, Steve reached into the collar of his shirt and curled two fingers around the skin-warmed ball chain. The tags clanked their complaint at being disturbed as Steve tugged hard enough to get them out to rest against his shirt instead of his naked chest. There were clearly two tags clinking against each other instead of the solitary one he had been carrying around for weeks. It was technically against regulations to only have one dog tag; if Steve had gotten hurt — or worse, killed — one was supposed to stay with him while the other tag was meant to go to casualty reporting or grave registration. 

But now Steve had Bucky’s information hanging lower from his main chain, and at first glance nothing was amiss. Though if the way Bucky’s features softened was any indication, the other man knew the tags were mismatched. Even if the pair matched the ones Bucky was wearing under his uniform.

“That’s what I thought.” Bucky’s voice was soft, almost tender, and too bold for broad daylight, even if he knew better than to give too much away. Bucky reached out to finger the tags around Steve’s neck for a moment, forefinger and thumb rubbing the pieces of brass together like the last two coins he possessed.

Looking down at those curious fingers, Steve didn’t dare look at Bucky’s face until the man had carefully tucked the tags back into the collar at the base of his throat. Bucky plucked at the front of Steve’s shirt to get the tags to settle back where they belonged, closer to his breast bone. There was no time to get lost in that self-satisfied smile that reached Bucky’s bright eyes once the tinny voice started calling out names. 

“Aaron, Jason.”

“Abnett, Daniel.”

They fell into an easy silence as the disembodied voice started the steady role call of men to come pick up their mail. Steve was leaning back against the Jeep while Bucky had slid off of it in anticipation of his name being called relatively soon. Standing just in front of Steve, Bucky crossed his arms loosely behind his back, standing at the most lackadaisical attention any soldier could manage. But his right hand was pointing outward and reaching for Steve. 

It seemed too risky a move to hold Bucky’s hand in the middle of the day, let alone with the majority of the 107th gathered in front of them. All it would take was one person to see, and not even necessarily the wrong person. But all Steve could hear in the back of his head was Bucky’s sobs from last night, and he took a step forward so it wouldn’t be so obvious when he took hold of Bucky’s right hand in his own. Those strong, sure fingers tightened around his, and Steve was sure he was going to self-immolate right on the spot.

“Asner, Edward.” The names continued and men kept filing to the tables set up with a multitude of men digging out pre-sorted bundles of mail. There was some sort of assembly line system going on that Steve had never gotten close enough to witness nor had any need to dig into.

Steve did his best to keep an impassive face as he held on tight to Bucky’s hand. Something so simple being so illicit made every part of Steve want to cry out for privacy. When the A names shifted to B names, Bucky’s entire body tightened with anticipation — his shoulders rolled back and his fingers tightened around Steve’s before he let go entirely. It wasn’t long before “Barnes, James,” was called and Bucky was all but fleeing to the front of the crowd. Though they were removed enough for Bucky to skirt the mass of men standing between him and whatever his family had sent over.

It took a good five minutes for Bucky to find his way back to him, a twine trussed bundle of envelopes held victoriously in his left hand. He was already tearing the string off like it was Christmas morning and he was an over eager child, though Steve couldn’t blame him for that at all. “C’mon, let’s get out of here,” Bucky said as he nudged Steve with an elbow and took off back toward the Howlies’ satellite camp.

Steve followed without any hesitation. Though perhaps he was following a bit too close as he almost ran smack into Bucky’s back when he stopped abruptly near the spot where he’d had his breakdown a scant twelve hours ago. “Aha,” Bucky crowed, tearing open an envelope with a ravenous fervor. He pulled out a single sheet of paper, glanced at it, and whipped around to shove it in Steve’s direction.

“Go read your letter, I’m going to go lie down with mine,” Bucky said, insistently pushing the paper into Steve’s open hand.

“My letter? I don’t get mail, Buck,” Steve huffed as he took the proffered sheet, confused.

“Just go read it, ok?” Bucky said with the brightest grin Steve had seen on his face in weeks. Probably since the last time he had gotten any word from back home. With that, he jogged away from Steve, spirit seemingly renewed.

Smiling at Bucky’s retreating form briefly, Steve took off toward the river. There were some clouds starting to form, the sky muting itself and dampening the oppressive heat of the sun. He trekked through camp, avoiding any spot he knew he’d find anyone who would want to talk to him, and through the copse of trees he had just journeyed into the night prior. Clutching the folded sheet of paper, Steve was careful not to let the wind take it before he could even get a chance to read what was scrawled across its surface. When he had reached the trees closest to the water’s edge, Steve settled on the grass with his back to the trunk of his favorite tree. Bucky had first kissed him here, brazen and covered only by the darkness of midnight.

Carefully unfolding the creased, creamy paper, before noticing the inlaid monogram at the top, Steve instantly recognized the handwriting. 

Mrs. Barnes’ penmanship was nothing like his mother’s — Sarah’s lilting script had been loose and almost floral, more suggestions of letters than actual discernible signs. Steve had no trouble reading it. Sometimes he caught the facsimile of her erstwhile ‘s’ in the hump of his own when he’s rushing through a note. A cresting wave with no real shape, a vague suggestion of a plural noun or a squiggle in the middle of a word that could be no other letter. 

But Winifred’s letters were precise and round, carefully lined up and neater than anything he’d seen not come off a machine. If he hadn’t seen her writing recipes in her kitchen, or a grocery list on an immaculately quarter-folded piece of paper, he would’ve thought the letter he had in his hand had come off a new model typewriter. The paper was water stained in the corners, though Steve was sure that happened during transport. There was no way Winifred Barnes would send even _him_ a letter on discolored paper. He was smiling as he brought the unfolded page closer to his face, fingers reflexively tightening against the edges of the letter as a breeze kicked up around him.

_Dear Steven,_

_James told me he’s been keeping you safe out on the front lines, but I know you’re watching out for him too. I wanted to thank you for keeping an eye on him for me until he comes home. Apologies for not writing you sooner, I assumed that my son was sharing his letters with you anyway, once he told us that you had been allowed to sign up after all! You left home without letting us know you were shipping out. I would have made you a nice goodbye meal had I known._

Steve felt his face heat up as it always did in the face of Winifred’s easy generosity. He couldn’t even count how many meals she had invited him to and insisted he join after his polite refusals fell on unhearing ears. There was a knot forming in the back of his throat. Swallowing against it, he kept reading.

_I hope that you enjoy the pictures of the girls I posted in my other son’s letter; they’re getting so big! Eleanor is walking now, though she seems to be fond of falling for the sake of George rushing to snatch her up. Rebecca keeps asking after you, you’re still her absolute favorite person. If you could find a moment to write her a simple letter, it would be greatly appreciated. Even though she can’t quite read yet, I’m sure it will help motivate her to start._

_Please stay safe, Steve. I’ll keep you in my nightly prayers, as always. Give James a hug from me and his sisters._

_With love,_

_Winifred Barnes_

Steve had to read and reread the letter again, his eyes welling with unshed tears by the third time through. The omnipresent ache he felt for the memory of his own mother was momentarily soothed by the genuine care that poured out of Winifred. She had been so considerate of Steve even before Sarah had passed, always watching him when his mother had to work late at the hospital or indulging him by letting Steve sleep in Bucky’s room on what he knew now to be the coldest nights of the year. He hadn’t realized just how much Winifred had done for him until this letter, and Steve was ashamed to admit that even just to himself. 

The cloud coverage had gotten more severe, dark gray clouds gathering rapidly across the sky. Steve only noticed when he looked skyward to try and ward off those lingering tears. He didn’t want to sit out here alone and cry. Carefully folding the letter back along the creases that were already there, Steve tucked the quartered paper into his left breast pocket before getting to his feet. Taking off at a brisk jog, he headed straight back toward his tent. 

It was a quick jaunt back once he let the lead out, pushing himself to his full speed even as he ducked through the trees was a thrill he didn’t get to indulge often. Even if he could probably run for a few hours to get the tumult of feelings to quiet, he was standing in front of his tent before he registered his surroundings. Though there was no real door to the tent, Steve made sure to make enough noise outside the flap before entering and startling Bucky.

Although it seemed that was impossible, as Bucky was pacing the small space between the cots like a caged tiger. He stopped dead in his tracks, eyes gone wide and one hand buried in his hair, the other clutching a letter on similar paper to the one in Steve’s pocket. There were words spilling over into neat rows on the back of his letter, though. Winifred’s letters to her actual son tended to be several pages long, extolling every detail of the Barnes family’s lives stateside. That touchstone of normalcy had been a lifeline for not just Bucky.

“Hey,” Bucky said, moving to drop the letter he was reading onto the pile of envelopes on his actual cot. Steve hadn’t folded the blanket before leaving earlier, but it seemed like Bucky had tidied up in his absence.

“Hi. Did you ask your mom to write to me?” Steve asked, jumping right into it with no preamble. Not that he needed to. Bucky was watching him eagerly, expression so hopeful that Steve couldn’t keep himself from crowding close into his personal space. “That was... incredible.”

Bucky shook his head. “No, actually. I didn’t ask.”

The gears turning in Steve’s head must have been loud enough for Bucky to hear because he started laughing. Reaching out, he tentatively grabbed at Steve’s elbow, hand sliding up to rest on his shoulder. 

“What?” Steve was adding two and two together and somehow arriving at purple here.

Bucky couldn’t help but laugh a little louder, though it was completely without malice. “Steve, I mentioned in a letter a long time ago that you’d gotten your ass shipped over here and how mad I was at you. Ah—” Bucky squeezed at Steve’s shoulder to keep him from interrupting when he opened his mouth… to interrupt. “And she asked a couple questions but dropped it after she picked up a job tutoring some of Becca’s classmates. Got too busy. But she mentioned in January that she wanted to write to you and I guess she finally did.”

So Bucky had known his mother was going to send him a letter for a few months now. It made a lot of sense in hindsight when Bucky had paused for a hot minute while reading the letter he received in February. Steve had been curious, but Bucky waved him off and claimed his throat had just gotten dry. Little did he know the man was scheming against him in the sweetest way.

“Why didn’t she send it directly to me?” Steve asked, thoughts finally coalescing into actual words. 

“Well, according to that one,” Bucky jerked his head to the side, indicating the pile of letters on his cot, “she remembers how impatient you are, and R comes a long time after B.”

Steve laughed at that, cheeks going pink for having been called out from over 3,000 miles away. “Yeah, she’s right. Besides, I wouldn’t have expected it and wouldn’t have waited around and missed it.” 

Closing the distance between them, Bucky looked like he was taking a leap of faith, shoulders squared and eyes determined. The cautious way he wrapped his arms around Steve’s waist almost broke his heart. He hadn’t meant to spend so much time pretending to not want this closeness. Hurting Bucky was the last thing Steve had wanted to do, but it seemed almost like he had at least turned the corner where that was concerned.

“I’ll have to write her back and thank her for being so kind to me. That really... it surprised me how much I needed that,” Steve said as he wrapped his arms around Bucky in return, careful to not crush Bucky’s right shoulder.

“You’re welcome, Stevie.” Bucky’s arms tightened around his middle in such a familiar way that Steve would have melted right into his chest were he six inches shorter again. Instead, he hunched enough so he could tuck his chin over Bucky’s left shoulder. God, he’d needed this more than he could have ever fathomed. Bucky used to bowl him over with how enthusiastic his hugs were, always surprising him with the intensity of the embrace. And Steve missed that. Even if he had gotten more of this man, he had also lost so much. Not to mention time wasted.

There was no space left between them as Bucky’s hands flattened on either side of Steve’s spine and pulled him in tight. It wasn’t the same jolting force, but it was so familiar all the same. A faint staccato beat of rain started, plinking against the weather proofed tent. He could still hear the beat of Bucky’s heart over it, or maybe that was his own uneven heartbeat in syncopation with the rain, heavy in his ear.

The silence that stretched between them was not uncomfortable in the slightest. They used to spend hours orbiting each other in their small railroad style apartment while Steve attempted to make a deadline on an advertisement and Bucky did his best to cobble together a dinner with a recipe card he had filched from his mother. If only Steve had found an ounce of this fortitude back when Bucky had been blatantly showing him just what he had felt, even if he hadn’t said anything either.

Pulling back just enough so he could look Bucky in the eyes, Steve chewed at the corner of his lip. Though things seemed to be settling nicely between them, there was an itch at the back of his mind that he couldn’t scratch on his own. “Last night, you said you hate that I'm here,” Steve said, voice low, unusually cautious.

“Did I?” Bucky asked, eyes going a little wide. “What else did I say?” It was almost as if he could remember saying something important, but not what words he had used. Steve knew that feeling.

“A few things, but I’m more interested in you hating me.” Steve dodged the whole refusal to go home conversation, knowing he didn’t have a leg to stand on there. Sometimes he knew when to let something go. This peace between them was too wonderful and fragile to smash it with a fight just yet.

“I don’t hate you, Steve.” Bucky looked frazzled and puffed his cheeks out as he stalled, trying to figure out what to say. He always did that when finding himself on unstable ground, clearly not expecting Steve to bring this up. “You know I love you.”

“Do I?” Steve challenged, the words flying out of him before he could think twice.

The sharp look that crossed Bucky’s face was instantaneous and piercing. “I love you,” he declared, no compunction about it. 

“I love you, too,” Steve replied, not with ease but no less emphatic or true. 

Taking a deep, shaky breath, Bucky shrugged in Steve’s arms. “But yeah, I hate that you're here. I hate that I have to look at your face in the middle of all... this disgusting place, while doing awful things because I won’t ever be able to separate you from _here_.” Bucky’s eyes were a little wild even as he held onto Steve’s gaze like a lifeline. “At least I had something to look forward to, going home. I was looking forward to seeing your face again, glad to know that you didn't have to witness any of this. That you were safe. Your hands would only be dirty with charcoal or paint, not with — with dirt and blood.” Bucky stuttered a little, getting worked up. He shook his head as if to dispel the thoughts of bloodshed, looking up at the ceiling as if he could see through it to the sky beyond the tent.

Steve drew him a bit forcibly to his chest, and he felt Bucky’s hands clutching at the back of his shirt as he tucked his face to Steve’s throat. He held onto Bucky like he was in danger of losing him that very moment when they were as safe as they could be in the middle of camp. Like the world was going to open up and swallow Bucky right out of his arms.

“But we're here, Bucky, together at least.” Steve didn’t know what else to say to Bucky to make any of this better. He couldn’t go back to the Stark Expo and flee the recruitment office when he saw that plaque reminding him that falsifying Military records was a felony. Couldn’t stop himself from setting foot in that VitaRay chamber. Definitely wouldn’t go back and leave Bucky to rot in Azzano.

“Yes, we are,” Bucky admitted after a prolonged silence, directly against the skin of Steve’s neck. He could feel the damp warmth of his breathing even out, and all at once Bucky was leaning full-bodied into him. And it was only after Bucky finished speaking that he drew back to look into Steve's eyes again, that wildness retreating for now. Relief flooded through Steve.

"And we'll be together when we get home, too," Bucky insisted. After a moment he added, “Promise?” His voice was so unsure that Steve had to reach up to cup Bucky’s cheeks in his hands, needing to touch him.

“I promise, Bucky. We’ll be together when we get back to Brooklyn. You can’t shake me now you told me you loved me.” Steve stroked his thumbs over the prominent rise of Bucky’s cheekbones, all fondness and trying to soothe him. “Hate to break it to you, pal.”

“You sure did a good job of following me over here.” Bucky tilted his head a little, nudging his face into Steve’s broad palm. It was like a dam of affection had burst between them and it wasn’t unlike vying for space on their furniture or the fire escape during a heat wave. There had always been a lot of touching between them, just with more intention now, and Steve was thrilled by it.

“Yeah, well, how could I stay home, you took all the stupid with you and I missed it. It was hard, being smart on my own.” Steve scrunched up his nose, pulling a face just to see Bucky smile, if even a little.

And Bucky laughed, the sound airy. “Says the guy the government conned into wearing tights and short pants. Very short pants.”

Instead of saying anything, not that he could dream up any defense to that past decision, Steve ducked his head to brush a soft kiss to Bucky’s lips. There was no resistance to be found and Bucky was arching into the kiss. Slinging an arm low around Bucky’s waist, Steve held onto him tightly as the air around them seemed to grow heavy with need. The sound of the rain falling heavier around their tent grew louder as Steve let himself indulge in the idea of spending the rest of the day here just like this.

The damned call of the bugle signaled the late hour, and with a soft groan right into Bucky’s mouth, Steve remembered that they were scheduled to meet up with Philips and Howard. Was it really 13:00 already? They had to go over their next mission briefing, and Steve cursed his heightened hearing not for the first time. If he hadn’t heard that brassy call meant to be heard for a good kilometer, he could have just kept trading kisses with Bucky for a while longer.

“We gotta go, Buck,” Steve said, mouth sliding down to catch Bucky’s lower lip between his own. He inhaled sharply through his nose as Bucky’s hands started tugging at his shirt.

“Let them miss us for ten minutes, Frenchie is always late,” Bucky murmured before rising on his toes enough to plant a more urgent kiss to Steve’s mouth. He was making a compelling augment that Steve was too weak to really resist. Neither of them had ever been late to a briefing before, and God only knew what shape Stark was in after last night.

“Can’t go over there together, it’ll be suspicious.” Steve was slowly coming around to Bucky’s idea, barely able to get any words in edgewise as it was. It was too easy to get lost in the intoxicating way Bucky was trailing kisses down the side of his jaw. “I’ll take the heat. Go after you.” 

“Whatever you say, Steve,” Bucky said, nose pressing to Steve’s pulse point.

The information about the train could wait for them. Steve wasn’t about to push Bucky away now. Not when he finally had him right where he wanted him.

“I—”

“No. No more talking.” Bucky sounded absolutely done with him, in that sweet way that meant he had to listen.

Steve laughed as Buck surged back up to kiss him, the sound getting muffled between their mouths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading! There are things that I eluded to in this work that are on the docket for revisiting in the future.


End file.
